


Fake It 'Til You Make It

by Severina



Category: Die Hard (Movies)
Genre: Community: smallfandomfest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-31
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-12-09 08:52:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11665758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: Fake it 'til you make it. That's what the shrink said, and Matt was willing to put theory into practice, even if she did steal at least five of her examples from that TED talk on youtube.





	Fake It 'Til You Make It

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Round 21 of LJ's smallfandomfest for the prompt 'getting over it'
> 
> * * *

Fake it 'til you make it. That's what the shrink said, and Matt was willing to put theory into practice, even if she did steal at least five of her examples from that TED talk on youtube.

So he told himself that everything was great, super-duper, no problemo as he made his way through two boroughs, three trains, one minor brown-out, up the stairs to ground level at the last station, and down the street toward the neon sign. Where McClane was leaning with one booted foot against the brick wall like he didn't have a care in the world. Like everything was a-okay, abso perfecto, a seventeen on a scale of one to ten.

Of course if there was anything that was rating a double digit high score, it was McClane himself. Not that Matt was paying any attention to the pec-hugging Tee underneath the scruffy leather jacket, or the sheen that came from a fresh shave on John's stupidly sexy bald head. Nope, not at all. 

"You're late," John said.

"I'm great, thanks for asking," Matt said. "Oh, the physio? Yeah, coming along nicely, doc says pretty soon I'll be pogo-ing down Fifth Avenue. Nice of you to show some interest."

Okay, so maybe all that Kathie Lee Gifford positive thinking going on in his noggin was just a tad bit annoying, and was possibly turning him mental.

John just huffed out a breath and pushed off from the wall. "Come on, time we get inside all the good vests are gonna be gone. Last time I was late I got the one that smells like fuckin' Cheetos and pit sweat."

"Yeah, that sounds… awful." Matt didn't glance up at the flickering purple lights above the door. It didn't matter – the giant "Lazer Mania" sign had been visible as soon as he'd reached the top of the subway stairs. But he made a grab for John's sleeve before the guy could duck into the recessed doorway. "You know, maybe we should just ditch the whole night. I mean, Cheetos and excessive perspiration is something that no man should have to put up with, you'll be smelling like that for weeks, believe me, I know of what I speak, I roomed with the Warlock at space camp. But hey! I know this arcade not far from here, totally old school, McClane, you'd love it. We could kick back with some pinball, maybe go head to head on a little Ms. Pac Man…" 

"The guys are waiting inside, Matt."

"Yeah. Yes! Though I'm not sure what Kowalski would think about you calling her a guy… no, you know what? She'd be fine with it, she's got bigger balls than half the men on the force." When John made another move to head into the building, Matt increased the pressure he was exerting on the dude's sleeve. Not that anything short of a big rig could slow McClane down – actually, scratch the big rig, he'd already demolished half a freeway with one – but John stopped anyway. Matt tentatively released his hold so that he could wave an arm, all the better to demonstrate the seriousness of the situation. "But this? It's very physical. I'm thinking about your health here, McClane. You're still recovering from the bullet wound in your—"

"Doc says I'm fine, kid."

"Fine. Great. But my knee still twinges when I put too much pressure on it, there's this whole thing where it feels like someone is taking pliers and—"

"Doc says you're fine too, kid."

"—twisting the muscle with red-hot—"

"You got something you wanna tell me? And quit the bullshit about my shoulder and your knee, all right? We're here to relax and have some fun."

"Relax and—" Matt shook the hair out of his face, the better to give John the incredulous look that his statement deserved. "Okay, here's the thing, McClane."

"Jeeeezus, there's a thing. Why you gotta always have a thing, Matt?"

"Okay, I get the concept. We run around in the dark trying to hide behind papier mache boulders while shooting each other. The sensor on our chests lights up when we score a hit. Three hits and we're out. In theory, this should be right up my alley. Cosplay on a massive scale, right? I'm Dax Scorpion and I've got the fate of the Seven Worlds resting on my shoulders, and all I have to do is take out six Soldiers of the Inner Echelon before I can take my rightful place on the Throne of Absolution."

"Yeah," John said dryly. "It's exactly like that."

"Okay, but—"

But the first time he'd ever even _seen_ a gun for real was when his apartment was exploding around him and John was taking out Gabriel's men like he was in a shooting gallery and they were tiny plastic ducks. And the _last_ time he'd seen a gun was when he'd used it to plug about three holes into the guy that looked like an extra from _Scarface_. Neither of them were memories of the all-is-awesome, super-duper variety.

But when John cocked a brow at him, he took a breath. According to Dr. Forsythe, he was supposed to replace his traumatic memories with better ones, and the thought of going to a gun range like the headshrinker suggested made him break out in a cold sweat and seriously considering upchucking the day's intake of Monster and leftover Chinese. 

Oversized plastic laser pistols were sort of like guns. And nobody went down for the count by getting blasted by a beam of light. He could do this. It would be good for him. 

Right.

"Nothing," he said. He shifted his messenger bag onto his shoulder and resolutely ignored the shaking of, oh, every muscle he had in his body in order to push past John into the… okay, the super dark, black-lit, slightly intimidating foyer. Gonna be absolutely fine, no worries, kick ass awesome. 

Yeah.

Fake it 'til you make it.

* * *

What was that saying McClane had? Fuck knows he'd heard it enough on that crazy July weekend, and again a couple of times in the hospital, and most recently when John ordered sweet green curry on his pizza.

Aaaah. This was a very bad idea.

Huddled behind a matte-grey Styrofoam structure that was supposed to represent the outer wall of a medieval castle, Matt buried his head in his hands and winced as another blast of laser 'fire' exploded somewhere to his right. He heard Lambert mutter a curse and knew if he looked up he'd see the sensor on Joe's chest flash a bright red to indicate the direct hit, and he also knew that Lambert was on his team so he really ought to be jumping up to try to defend the guy against the rampaging hordes. 

Except on the Richter scale of Very Bad Ideas, this was definitely a nine point five.

Every high pitched whine from their stupid toy weapons reminded him of McClane's gun going off right next to his goddamn head as his apartment burned around him. Every flash brought back the image of bullets whinging off concrete and plasterboard and metal. Every grunt brought to mind John's desperate attempt to stay upright at the end, and Lucy's hopeless tears. And every time a gun swiveled in his direction he saw the look in Gabriel's eyes when he pulled the trigger and _felt_ the bullet crash through muscle and cartilage before it splintered the bone. 

It would have been a hell of a lot better if he and McClane had ended up on the same team. He totally hadn't realized how much he was relying on John McClane to watch his back, even in a ridiculous game of laser tag. And when an annoying little voice in his head reminded him that it was _his_ fault that they were late and the teams had already been divvied up and that's why he didn't have John at his six he told the voice to go fuck itself.

'Cause yeah, he'd already been hit twice when the inane game first started because he'd stood there with his mouth gaping open like a five year old on a Disney cruise. Well, if the Disney cruise was populated by zombie Goofys and vampire Mickey Mouses and the kid was about to get bitten, eaten and then tossed overboard. Into shark infested waters. 

Better to stay crouched where he was until somebody either found him and put him out of his misery with a third hit or the big red timer on the wall ran out.

Too bad that only made the voice get louder. Telling him that he wasn't even _trying_ to fake it, and he couldn't replace bad memories with good if he was hunched ass over teakettle in the corner, and Lucy would laugh her ass off at him if she could see him right now. Shit, the voice even _sounded_ like Lucy. But hell, while he could put up with getting mocked by pretty much the most badass chick he'd ever met – sorry, Detective Kowalski – and he could deal with all the grating sympathetic pseudo-understanding that Dr. Forsythe would throw out like cheap confetti when she heard he'd failed, he _really_ didn't like the sound of John McClane seeing that he'd gotten tapped out within the first five minutes. He might not be badass but he could at least be marginally-not-sucktastic-ass. 

Of course, it took him another three minutes to convince his brain that he wasn't going to be staring down the barrel of Gabriel's .40 when he got up, and when he finally grew that bigger set that Lucy always said he needed and rose to his albeit-shaky legs, he stepped directly into the path of the semi-truck known as John McClane. The collision sent them both rocking back into the corner, wedged between the wall that delineated the end of the course and an oversized papier mache boulder.

"Great, just fucking fantastic!" he burst out. The hand that flailed out and landed on John's shoulder had as much effect as a flyswatter on a 747, but at least it made him feel a little better. When he pushed against John's chest in an attempt to get some breathing room the result was the same, so he spread his arms wide and gave up. He gestured to the single unlit sensor on his chest plate. "Fine! You got me, okay? I suck! Go ahead, lay it on me!"

He frowned when John's hand fisted in the thick material of the vest... opened his mouth to protest when John tugged him forward… and then he was pretty sure he had an aneurysm or an embolism or something where his head exploded, because John's dry lips were pressed against his and John's tongue was licking at the seam of his lips, and then John's tongue was inside his mouth and yeah this was definitely an embolism.

"Oh," he said when they parted. "So. Okay. That was a kiss."

"Nothin' gets past you, kid," McClane said. He tapped a single digit on Matt's head, and Matt was too stunned to even protest. "Genius." 

"I don't think you're supposed to kiss the enemy," Matt said. Because yes, the thing he wanted to do was _discourage_ John McClane from making out with him. When they were alone. In the dark. Yet he couldn't seem to stop his mouth from yapping. "I'm pretty sure the rules said that there isn't supposed to be any physical contact at all. You could get kicked out just for tackling me like that."

Luckily, John ignored him as much as he usually did when he was rambling. "When we're done here, maybe we check out that arcade," John said. "Grab a couple drinks and talk."

Matt blinked. "Do you mean… are you talking about… like… a date?"

"Yeah." John smirked at him. "Like a date."

"I… that's…" Matt abruptly realized that he was beaming. Fuck, if he could see his reflection he'd probably look just like his little sister Hayley when she was going all goopy-eyed over Harry Styles. He cleared his throat, since his voice had seemingly regressed to pre-puberty tenor levels; tried to relax against the hard paper boulder and succeeded only in awkwardly sticking out a hip and having nowhere to rest his arm. He bobble-headed in McClane's general direction. "Sure, you know. Yeah. That'd be cool. Or whatever."

"Cool," John repeated slowly. And when his gaze flicked to Matt's mouth, that weak-kneed feeling had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with anticipation. He shouldered his weapon and started to turn, analyzing the probable defensive tactics of John's team to determine just how many of them he could ghost so they could blow this popsicle stand and move on to the main event. If he applied a rotating algorithm…

"Oh, and Matt?"

Matt glanced up. "Yeah?"

John grinned broadly before raising his pistol and nailing him straight in the chest. 

Matt gasped. "Fucker!"

"Play your cards right and you'll find out just what kind of fucker I am."

"That was… did you just do a thing there, with the innuendo?"

" 'In you' just might be where I end up, kid."

Matt rolled his eyes. "Oh shit, McClane, that was just bad. That was dad-joke level bad, and trust me when I say that I do not want to be thinking of anything fatherly when it comes to you and me. Not that you and my dad are at all alike. My dad's a doctor so… but then there's always playing doctor and… not that I want to do that!! No! I just—"

John's lips were softer the second time around.

And Matt didn't even notice the whine of the laser pistols or the flash of the lights as he strutted for the door five minutes later.


End file.
